On the sweetness

For the second hour of church, Bishop has asked the Stake Patriarch to speak on patriarchal blessings.

He is an old rancher, browned and wrinkled like only an old rancher can be.  Bald.  Grew up in the colonies.

For 30 minutes all he does is outline the gospel, every part of it.  Each bit is pithy, short, with the quality of an aphorism.  Agency, growth, creation, knowledge, sin, forgiveness, atonement, Church, priesthood, ordinances, commandments, temples, marriage, children, primary, you name it.  Then, “that brings me to patriarchal blessings.  They fit in this way: … , … , and … .”  The end.

It is so sweet.

For, behold, I say unto you that Zion shall flourish, and the glory of the Lord shall be upon her;

And she shall be an ensign unto the people, and there shall come unto her out of every nation under heaven.

And the day shall come when the nations of the earth shall tremble because of her, and shall fear because of her terrible ones. The Lord hath spoken it. Amen.

–D&C 64:41-43

I have decided to become a Zionist.*

*Our Zion

There is a really striking parallel between our temples and our people.

The temples and the saints of yesteryear were few, rural, Western, quirky and eccentric, and often but not always beautiful in an unusual way– homespun high art. (more…)

I had already figured out that our teenagers weren’t really doing the modest thing anymore.

I had also gathered that there is a mini trend of endowed Saints going about sans garments much of the day.

But I wasn’t expecting to go to a BYU married student ward and see several women dressed in a way that is incompatible with garments. Or all the guys with skanky long hair. Or the string ties (that one I liked).

O tempora, O mores.

D&C 60:4 — I think he is calling you his jewel. (more…)

My father’s hands are rough and wrinkled.

The dark stains left from scrubbed-off dirt and grass and grease.

The little hairs, the ink from where he drew

with engineer’s precision

plans for the pastures on yellowed graph paper

at the kitchen table.

Once he held a bat with me and said,

“hold it like this, hands together, not too hard but like you mean it.”

My  mother’s hands are swelled and toiled.

The pink wrinkles on the knuckles from soaking in the dishwater.

The speck of dried dough she picks off when she notices,

the callus from the needle,

the lotion smell from the endless struggle against

the marks of struggle.

I remember days when she held up my hand to look at in hers and said,

“yes, you really did a number on yourself, let me wash it out and bandage you up,

let’s be more careful!”

My Savior’s hands are run right through.

Times are when reaches down and grabs mine, pulling me

from the rough chaos of the water

into light and air.

On the sweetness of Saint life.

The new YW class presidency speaks.   Each girl starts by talking about her dad before saying a few things of general religious interest.  It is really quite affecting.

The twelve-year old has written down a collection of  her dad’s best dad  jokes.  My favorites is the very Anglo-American “What’s the definition of a dad joke? A joke by a dad” and “Sometimes at church they’ll ask me, ‘Brother X, are you awake?  Are you paying attention?’ and I think, what a weird way to start the lesson.”

The 16-year old thanks her dad for reading Harry Potter so they could talk about it.  She says she hasn’t forgotten her return promise to read the Lord of the Rings.  The 15-year old says her dad kept trying to teach her to ride a bike until she learned.  It took five years.

The Father is the Adult Stage of the Human Male

“Long periods of peace foster certain optical illusions: one is the conviction that the inviolability of the home is grounded in the constitution, which should guarantee it.  In reality, it is grounded in the family father, who, sons at his side, fills the doorway with an axe in his hand.”

-Ernst Junger.

I have a new son-in-law and he and my daughter have had their first baby.  I see the burden he feels to provide for his family and make it possible for my daughter to raise their child, and for him to also.  It is almost crushing him but he staggers on.  My heart goes out to him.

On the sweetness of Mormon life

8-year old sitting by himself on the front row beaming.

Dad conducting.

12-year old sister chorister.

10-year old sister opening prayer.

Mom speaking.

5-year old brother and 3-year old sister providing improvised comedic relief.

Dad baptizing and confirming.

13-year old brother on the closing prayer.

Grins breaking out everywhere.

Ahem. If I may, dear sirs and madams of the Jewish persuasion,

While one would hardly presume to dictate your reading list—least of all to a people with so estimable a literary heritage—I wonder if I might, with the utmost delicacy, suggest the perusal of a certain passage in what is known among the Gentiles as the New Testament. I refer, of course, to that rather spirited affair often dubbed the Battle of Armageddon.

Given certain recent events—the sort that cause even the more blasé butlers to polish the silver a touch more nervously—it may prove of more than passing interest. Not, of course, that one suggests any conclusions—merely that a quick peek might be… prudent.

One does hate to show up at a prophetic military engagement underdressed.

No pressure, naturally. Just a friendly tip from one who has seen rather too many apocalyptic horsemen galloping about the place lately for comfort.

Yours in faithful service and polished candlesticks,
Everard J. Twinge
(Butler, Retired—though always alert)

Usually, when one has a complex and interesting thought, it is best to polish it first, and arrange it like a seven course meal, prepared for someone important. But these are not fully fleshed out thoughts. Indeed, now that I am delving into this, I find I am in great danger of delving too deeply, as it were. I am shocked just how much Isaiah has to say on the Fall of Babylon. But the pure Isaiah exposition will have to wait. For now, I am going to dump the jigsaw puzzle pieces on the table, and let all present work them out.

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I want to read an SF story where you have a small lost colony in a star system somewhere.  They eventually convert en masse to the Restoration.  But its all on paper.  No authority.  They are hopeful that they will be sent an angel someday.  But so far it hasn’t happened.  They struggle with their finite resources to build a broadcaster sending out their complete genealogies so their work can be done.  But even with this hope and this effort, they realize that its still not complete.  Without their genealogies going back beyond the settlement of the colony, which they don’t have, they can receive their individual ordinances and they can be sealed to each other, but they cannot be welded in to the rest of the human race.  They would be an isolated pocket of sealings.

So they decide to launch a starship.  They will send a young man to the stars.  His mission is to marry an LDS girl.

Its some kind of cosmic injustice that John C. Wright can write serious stuff more serious than me and silly stuff sillier than me.

http://scifiwright.com/2025/06/my-plan-for-a-better-polity-2/

I have petitioned the Congress for redress.

I was in Sacrament meeting feeling separated from the Savior.  Yes, I have spiritual feelings.  Yes, I feel his presence in my life.  It is not enough.  I feel a hole.

But I know myself.  When the veil finally breaks, I probably won’t feel some kind of ecstatic reunion, I will probably just be too overwhelmed to feel anything at all.  And after that, I know this is incredible to say, but I know myself, it risks becoming routine.

The sense of separation I have now is necessary so that in the future the end of the separation never feels routine.

Scribblers have spilled lots of ink on why George RR Martin can’t finish his Song of Fire and Ice.  For technical reasons, he has too many viewpoint characters, one says..  For character reasons, he’s old and fat and lost his drive, another says.

I have my own theory.  I think he is fighting reality and losing.

Here’s a truth about the world we live in.

The good man always wins in the end.  If he hasn’t won, it’s not the end.

Stories reflect that truth.  Even tragedies have to.

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